Negative Help (full version)
by Andrew YY T See-AIR
Summary: Andrew meets with his true friend Tom, and recounts flashback memories of his stress levels and being saved by a man who understands the human mind with the kindest empathy and sympathy; whom he calls, "the Doctor". (Originally submitted for the 2018 Big Finish Paul Spragg Memorial Opportunity.)
1. Chapter 1

**For Dad (1966 – 1998)**

Northala Fields, one of my favourite parks in the borough of Ealing. I ascended along the spiral hill until I came across an empty bench, very near the top. Much to my fortune, this enabled a relatively reasonable view of some of London's most iconic landmarks, from the Gherkin to the Shard.

Whilst inhaling the fresh air around the perfect clear blue sky, I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder. It wasn't something, it was _someone_. So I looked up.

"Andrew!"

It was Tom Hillary, my one and only true friend. Same age, curly dark brown hair, blue eyes, freckles on his face, close–in–height but a few inches shorter, with a very cute grin. I smiled, for the first time in ages, before responding to him in my Mid–Atlantic accent. "Tom, my brother!" We embraced in a prolonged hug. "How are you?" He unveiled two cans of dandelion and burdock from his rucksack, which he kindly brought along. This was one memorable opportunity to open up.

"So, how have you been coping... since the funeral?" he asked, feeling cautious about his choice of words. "Still missing Dad every single day," I opened my can and took a sip before I leaned closer towards him and whispered. "Which is why I brought you here – to tell you what happened four months ago, regarding my health."

"Your health?" Tom began playing the air violin and mimicking a slow sad tune – it became rather squeaky to my ears. "No, don't, don't do that," I tried to hide my nervous laughter. "Oh, Andrew, I was only winding you up," he exclaimed, giving me that very cute grin. "Why would I play the violin to deliberately ridicule what you're about to tell me?" Then we bursted out laughing before each having another sip of dandelion and burdock. It wasn't the first time doing this sort of comical act together. "Just like winding up the clock, backwards and forwards, to find the right place and the right time. That's the thing about the Doctor."

" _Who?_ "

"Exactly."

I found Tom's reaction priceless, but thought containing it would be more appropriate for this case. There was so much to tell him about when and how the Doctor came along to save my life. Psychologically _and_ literally, from the dangers of depression and death. The Doctor is not just some ordinary psychologist; he is a very empathetic and sympathetic man who understands the human mind, as well as experiencing all forms of loss.

"So this Doctor, how exactly did he save you?"

I had to elaborate, to help Tom understand the broader context. "My Mum didn't phone him, nor my local GP; he just came out of the blue, as a matter of fact and perspective. Everything surrounding my Dad's lymphoma, none of this kept me going – right until the Doctor came much later on during the most stressful situation in my life, when I received 'negative help'; some oxymoron I believe to have coined not too long ago..."


	2. Chapter 2

Alastair Hall, my father, passed away in late March. I had no idea how much his cancer was going to impact my wellbeing and studies. As a result, I made the regretful decision to drop my A–levels, despite using up all the time and energy to prioritise my final exam preparations. "Tom, I'm so sorry." That was the last thing I said whilst apologising and shaking my head. I didn't feel ready to tell him why because I thought I'd let him down.

I lost my confidence in everything and immediately withdrew from social life. Two full weeks of depressive episodes at home: crying non stop on the sofa, oversleeping in bed for hours, losing my appetite, and having repetitive suicidal thoughts every single day.

It wasn't until my mother, Glenda, found a psychologist named Dr Martin Gibbs who ran a private clinic, through the NHS. She was extremely concerned about my stress levels deteriorating, whilst having to take care of my father at the same time. I just couldn't cope with the depression anymore. The therapy sessions were my first collective stage of coming out of the blue.

* * *

The clinic was a modernised two–storey house, probably built within the past couple of years or so, situated along the stretched avenue of two rows of houses. Right on the doorstep, I pressed the buzzer. The door immediately unlocked and opened, revealing a tall man, late 50s, with round spectacles.

"Are you Dr Gibbs, psychologist?"

"I am indeed. And presumably you are Andrew?"

"Hall, Andrew Hall. Pleasure to meet you."

"You too, young man. Please, do come in."

I gave Dr Gibbs a rather sad smile, as a way of being polite instead of expressing too much sadness. From the look on his face, he appeared to show a lot of understanding with deep concern at the same time. Much to my surprise, as I entered the building, it didn't look very much like a conventional home; similar layout and arrangements to my local GP but more clean and comfortable.

We walked straight down the hallway, past the stairs, and through a door. His office was quite roomy and spacious: a computer desk at one end of the room with a few sofa–like armchairs some metres away.

"Have a seat. And, please, help yourself to some water."

I sat down on an armchair which I found to be extremely comfortable but more solid than the sofa in my living room, and poured myself a glass of water from the jug on a small coffee table. Dr Gibbs took his seat and placed his notepad and pen in front, making it easier for him to lean forwards without straining his back.

"So, tell me," he began. "Your father, Alastair, was recently diagnosed with cancer, and that has been increasing your anxiety levels since then. Have no fear, there is no need to provide every single detail, in the style of a prolonged oral report. It's up to whatever best suits you. I don't mind if you 'waffle', or require short breaks in between."

I knew where he was coming from, so I responded by saying everything I had in mind on this issue. "I'm worried about Dad, my poor Dad. The lymphoma has made him feverish every single night, along with various symptoms such as his nasty persistent cough and hair loss – leaving myself to struggle with daily life. Sadly enough, I am unable to remember any specific events of the two–week period, due to the heavy amount of anticipatory anxieties which has been affecting my thinking."

He did not react in surprise or annoyance, he appeared to understand my point. "I think I might've also experienced depression during my early childhood, probably when I was about eight years old, but I can't seem to recall any of it either."

"Well," Dr Gibbs wrote on his pad while listening. "I think what you might have is Asperger's syndrome."

"I'm sorry?" I paused for a moment. I did not know what was the best way to respond to what I had just heard. "You don't mean... I am being diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome, making me autistic?"

"Same with clinical depression," he replied. "It's going to take quite a while to kick in."

I was lost for words, but I tried my very best to contain my feelings without breaking down in tears or losing my temper. "It's okay, Andrew. Nobody, absolutely, nobody is trying to make you feel patronised or discouraged."

"Thank you," I felt more reassured. "This has really helped me a lot. And by the way, did my Mum mention anything about 'medication' on the phone?"

"Yes, even your GP has specified this in their letter."

"So what would you be recommending?"

"Risperidone – most effective for treating anxiety and depression. Take one each morning, then you'll be fine for the rest of the day."

"Any side effects?"

"Of course. I'll be monitoring you at these sessions. You're safe here, Andrew. Everything we discuss remains confidential."

"I fully accept your reassurance, Dr Gibbs."

And that was it. A prescription for risperidone, done and dusted.

Over the following four weeks, Dr Gibbs not only explained more about autism and Asperger's, in the context of my own diagnoses and how it affects the brain; he also came up with numerous strategies to distract myself from worrying too much about my father, as well as showing me some deep breathing techniques for whenever I started feeling anxious or depressed. But then came the worst which I did not anticipate at all.

* * *

"Dr Gibbs?" I pressed the buzzer twice before knocking multiple times. "Dr Gibbs, it's Andrew Hall, are you in there? Hello?" I wasn't sure whether to call the police or go straight home, so I tried again. "Martin, we were supposed to start five minutes ago."

I sighed in annoyance, rolled my eyes and grumbled, "Oh my God."

Then I heard the door being unlocked. It opened, revealing a woman in her mid 40s with ginger hair. I couldn't tell whether she knew Dr Gibbs. Was she his colleague, girlfriend, fiancée, or wife? She spoke with a heavy Russian accent, "Yes?"

"Excuse me, but I'm here for a session with Dr Martin Gibbs. Is he in?"

"Err, no. Sorry. He's currently on leave, so I'm covering for him. Don't know when he'll be back for sure." She offered me a handshake, to which I accepted. Her hand, for some reason, felt rather cold as stone – quite bizarre at this time of year when it was already starting to get warmer.

"I am Dr Mary–Annette Stupin."

"Erm, nice to meet you, Dr Stupin."

"Good boy, lovely manners. Do come in."

I could not believe what I had just heard, right from her mouth. How dare she use the role of a psychologist to utter such patronising phrases in front of an 18–year–old patient – not appropriate. As part of my Asperger's, I had no choice but to go ahead and cope with this sudden dramatic change...

* * *

It was exactly a week later. I was wandering outside the Hanwell Community Centre, and my heart was already beating really fast with slight wind pains in my stomach. I didn't even want to turn up for my session that day, I wanted to go home. Whenever I had glimpses of some of the nearby houses with my own eyes, I quickly turned away, just like avoiding eye contact with a stranger who suspiciously stares for no reason. None of this was helping, but that was the only thing I could do to temporarily remove Stupin from my head. Then suddenly, quick as a flash, I spotted _a man_ , from a good distance, who was leaning on what appeared to be some rectangular antique painted in dark blue. It wasn't there last week, so how did it get there? Did he have it transported from a junkyard? I decided to go up to him and ask.

The man was very tall and slim. He had thick modern spiky brown hair with long sideburns, and wore a dark brown suit with blue pinstripes. From the look of this blue antique, it clearly resembled a police public telephone call box from numerous decades ago.

"Hey," I called out. "You alright?"

"Yeah," he sighed.

I could tell he was stressed, quite likely to have been recovering from a traumatic experience and needing some fresh air. He sounded like he had an Estuary English accent, as he resumed speaking. "Been better. Been better than ever. No, that's not it, actually been worse. Just finished watching Schindler's List about five minutes ago. Brings back old memories." It was at the point where I felt more motivated and ready to engage in a full conversation, when he mentioned the title of the very film.

"Same here. I watched it all in one go, last night. One of my absolute favourite heartbreaking epics ever done in the history of filmmaking. Kinda reminds me of when my father, then a news cameraman, got caught in the Siege of Sarajevo, 1992—"

"Which broadcaster?" he interjected.

"BBC."

"Oh, right. Just asking."

"Thankfully, he was saved by some random stranger. Never told me his name. They met again in 1997 during the Clinton visit, and also when Paddy Ashdown became High Representative for Bosnia in 2002. My father lent him his camera to take photos of himself with the Clintons and Lord Ashdown. But it was all over. Every single raw footage he captured were burnt down in a warehouse fire, several years later. No remains were discovered in the aftermath, which meant that my father felt he had no choice but to resign."

"You can pass him my regards."

"I will. But only when he's conscious."

"Conscious? What do you mean?"

"He has lymphoma. Diagnosed not too long ago. Gonna miss his homemade broccoli and cauliflower cheese casserole, even though my Mum's now fully comprehended his typed–up recipe. Now that I've been diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome and clinical depression, I honestly don't know how I can cope with everything."

"I'm not surprised. I know what it's like for someone on the autistic spectrum to cope with losing someone very close, whether it's a parent or both, or even a dear friend. I've got no one left myself. I've lost everyone, all my friends whom I consider family. One of them lost her father when she was only a baby."

"How?"

"Got hit by a car."

"Dear Lord, I am so sorry," I closed my eyes and shook my head.

"She's managed to overcome it," he added. "But her mother later chose to remarry. Rewarding, but heartbreaking at the same time for the entire family. Nevertheless, she's now got a boyfriend of her own; met him through me."

"Heartbreaking indeed. I do hope you'll pay her a visit, when the time is right."

He took a deep breath and unveiled a small wrinkled paper bag of jelly babies from his pocket, while I observed the police box side–to–side. "These always cheer me up. Like one?"

"Sure," I dug my hand into the bag and picked a purple one. "Ah, blackcurrant, my favourite," I took a bite and sucked on its sweet wobbly flesh. "Haven't had jelly babies since Christmas, nearly ten years ago."

"Oh, really?" he asked innocently.

"Yeah," I sighed. "I was very upset during the start of the holiday season. Probably depressed over the destruction of Dad's footages. It wasn't until Christmas Eve that I finally recovered, thanks to some eccentric social worker who went by the name of 'Mr Maverick'. Don't remember him well though, except for his really long scarf. And also his curly hair, thicker and longer than my best friend Tom's, but still brown. Tom is more than a friend to me... He's my brother, metaphorically speaking, and I trust him with all my life."

"That social worker you speak of, might have seen him once. Not sure. I meet so many faces in my travels. Please, have another one."

I picked a blue jelly baby from the bag. "This is rare. Never seen a _blue_ one before in my life. What is it? Blue raspberry? Blueberry? Bubblegum?"

"Taste it."

I popped it in my mouth and chewed. "Mmm... Blueberry. Really nice. Fresh and fruity. But hang on a moment," I became a little suspicious. "They don't produce or sell these flavours."

"That's because they're homemade."

"Your _own_ recipe, sir?"

"Fresh from the catalyser." He rubbed his nose. "People usually don't call me 'sir'. I'm the Doctor."

"Andrew, Andrew Hall."

"Andrew. It's a pleasure."

"Likewise."

We shook hands.

"Mind I ask, Doctor, do you own this police box?"

He patted on its surface, "It's no ordinary police box. It's a time machine. Known as: the TARDIS."

"TARDIS?"

"Time And Relative Dimension In Space."

"Nice ring to it," I placed my right hand on the front door to feel its wooden texture. Then suddenly, a glowing orange handprint appeared on its surface.

"This isn't good," the Doctor fished out some sort of bluey torch–like device which he waved all over my face and body.

"Uh, Doctor," I stammered. "Is that some kind of toy?"

"Sonic screwdriver. Like a prototype medical scanner." He resumed, as I kept myself still on the spot. He grabbed my hand and moved the buzzing screwdriver towards my palm, then over my forehead. Was he trying to extract information? He put the screwdriver back in his pocket and placed both hands against my temples. "What the hell are you doing?" I flinched.

"Just double checking..."

He closed his eyes and opened his mind. A brief instant. Then, he retreated.

"I should've realised sooner..."

"I'm sorry?" I asked.

"Andrew, I've been tracking an... outbreak. Trying to locate patient zero."

"Wait, wait, you're not saying... a virus?"

"Not bacteriological, but _psychic_ , in this case. You've been _inflicted_ with troubled thoughts. A psychospore targeted directly at your mind. It leaves a telepathic residue."

I was completely stunned, didn't know whether to take his word for it. Suddenly, my head began to heat up. "Oh God, it's happening again," it was the stress coming back to haunt me. "I have visions of last week's session with a _psycho_ psychologist. Don't even know how I can cope today whilst bottling it all up."

"They're usually there to help that. Who is this psychologist?"

"Her name is Mary–Annette Stupin. She replaced Dr Martin Gibbs."

"Do you know what happened to Dr Gibbs?"

I tried to take a deep breath. "Don't know. His private clinic is just a few houses away from here. He was always understanding and extremely helpful. Stupin's more intrusive, callous and patronising. She has planted anger and anticipatory anxieties into my mind. Can't recall anything in particular she brought up last week – very hazy. As for that, I have been taking risperidone ever since _before_ Dr Gibbs vanished."

"Medication is one way of reducing stress, a combination of whimsy and humour also," he paused, half–frowning. "Wibbly wobbly, timey wimey."

I felt fine again, my head immediately cooled down.

"How would you feel if I came along to your session, Andrew?"

"But... don't I need a doctor?"

"Not to worry, _I am_ a Doctor."


	3. Chapter 3

The Doctor had a really good trick right up his sleeve, as we both turned up on the doorstep. He flashed some kind of blank white paper at Stupin which read, only from her literal perspective: "Brad Lyman, Trainee Psychologist."

My anxieties were slowly coming back. I hung up my indigo hoodie on the coat rack, before sitting down opposite Stupin. The Doctor sat on the other side of the room, pretending to act as though he was observing.

"Right, Andrew," she began. "I hear that you've been bottling up your feelings, since last week's session."

"Yes," I gulped.

She looked to the Doctor briefly. Arms crossed, his brooding features stared back.

"Is your father's health improving?" she asked.

"Afraid not, despite having chemotherapy."

"Horrible. I am deeply saddened to hear that." She sounded condescending from her tone of voice. I could easily tell she was pretending to be sympathetic.

I cleared my throat. "Thanks, I appreciate your response."

"Might I ask, have you told anyone at _schooly_ about what you've been going through?"

It was at that moment I cringed, when she uttered "schooly"; the Doctor was completely stone–faced.

"Well, before I dropped my A–levels, I wasn't close to anybody in my _sixth form_ tutor group. Except for Tom who I've known since primary school."

"No, then? It's very clear that Tom shoulders the brunt of your burdens, Andrew. You can't just have only one friend, it's weakness. Making friends with your other classmates would have improved your mood and relationships. Did you ever exchange phone numbers with them?"

"Of course not," I said bluntly. "Why would I exchange phone numbers when I don't know _any_ of them?"

"Have you always been incapable of communication, Andrew?"

"I have Asperger's syndrome. I feel absolutely disgusted and patronised by your interrogative approach and your _negative help_ because your behaviour right now isn't just outrageous, it is ignorant and revolting."

She was still as a statue, words pouring from her mouth. "You are blindly combative, like a stubborn sheep."

"And _you_ are not qualified to be in the shoes of Dr Martin Gibbs. He _never_ asked me such intrusive questions, and he still _hasn't_ returned. So where is he? Where the hell is Dr Gibbs?"

The Doctor got up from his seat. "Come to think of it, has there been any trace?"

Stupin raised her eyebrows. The air in the room tightened.

"He's my normal supervisor, see," the Doctor bluffed. "And he wouldn't just take time off for two weeks without any notice, no. That's the thing about human psychologists, Dr Stupin. They _inform_ their patients in advance."

"It's negligent of Gibbs, I agree. He doesn't care for the boy at all." She straightened. "And aren't you supposed to be observing, Mr Lyman?"

" _I am_ observing. And I know how you've been treating your supposed patient. I thought it might be malpractice, but it's more than that... You've been weakening him. Letting him suffer to the point where he can no longer cope. Andrew's right, you know. Dr Gibbs would never have the presumption to interfere with a patient's personal life. You killed Dr Gibbs, didn't you?"

"To bring you here."

"You murderer," I furiously growled at Stupin. "You sick, deranged, authoritarian murderer!"

"Quiet, quiet!" she snapped at me, before facing the Doctor again. "What I am is a new beginning. I – the Worrier – am Axit's legacy, like a spare seed in a gardener's pocket. An infiltrator sowing dissension among the weak–minded."

"Whoever this 'Axit' is, creating a swathe of psychological time bombs and outbreaks in your wake," said the Doctor.

"You may have disarmed the others, but not this one. Not this time. _Axit means Axit._ "

"These are people, Worrier. Not components in some soulless machine. _People!_ "

"I am Axit's vaporous creation, implanting the darkest thoughts and fears into one's mind. Dr Martin Gibbs was the last to die. Interfere and Andrew Hall can easily usurp the title!"

Suddenly, she firmly grasped onto my upper arms and forcefully pinned me to the armchair. Her fingernails were so sharp, they were tearing through my shirt. It felt like I was being physically restrained by two police officers. "Get the hell off me! Damn you!" I screamed at the top of my voice. "Doctor!"

The Doctor moved forwards, sonic screwdriver raised to blow out the desk light.

"Move and the boy dies!"

He froze.

"You, Andrew, will suffer the consequences like you've never seen before!" she roared like a beast. "For you, Doctor. For your actions. Taste your own medicine!" Her eyes started glowing a bright orange light, like fire. I began to fear the worst – my death. But it was worse than that, the words began to crawl like maggots inside my head.

"Your father will die. You will only have your mother around to take care of you. Imagine her dying in your arms! Imagine yourself dying a slow and painful death! Imagine every single child and baby losing their parents and dying in vain, with their generations ceasing to exist! Alone! _All alone! The last!_ "

" _No!_ "

"And you will take that fear into your world. You will spread it to your kind. A forest, a swamp, an epidemic! _All across the universe!_ " She squeezed my arms tighter. I literally heard the terrifying screams of children and crying babies, echoing right inside my head. They showed my darkest fear – becoming an orphan who's the _last_ in the family.

"You're not alone, Andrew!" the Doctor protested. "You belong together with your family. The people who love you. Families belong together. Children and parents belong together. Babies and parents belong together! _You are not alone!_ "

I was screaming? Screaming? No, it was the room that was screaming. Every dark thought, every repressed horror, glowing like orange plasma. Her powers of fear were already burning my head. Twice the pain, twice the suffering.

"Medi–medi–cation!" I struggled to call out. "Doctor! My medication! My risperidone!"

The Doctor struggled to hear: "What?"

"Tablet! Hoodie! Side pocket!"

Although I couldn't see what the Doctor was doing, he found my blister pack and swiftly took out a tablet.

The Worrier continued to grasp my arms. "No one can help you now, not even your Doctor!"

I stuck my tongue out as wide as possible, despite the increasing pain in my head. The Doctor carefully aimed the tablet in my direction, then immediately tossed it in mid–air like a dart or a pebble. It landed on my tongue without bouncing or slipping, and started dissolving. The Worrier began to lose grip, as she spotted the white chemicals evaporating in our presence. The risperidone sizzled on my tongue, I was already screaming and burning. The chemicals transformed into a cloud of energy, like a ghost, and entered the Worrier's mouth. She released my arms and flailed like a dying fish out of water. Her screams echoed all over the room. The Worrier disintegrated into tiny specks of silver balls. They looked like atoms that resembled mercury. Scattered confetti. The Doctor held his hand out as though expecting rain.

I nearly fainted and collapsed on the floor. My head and tongue were still feeling painful.

"Andrew? Andrew?" The Doctor checked my pulse and patted my cheek. I moaned and opened my eyes.

"What, what the hell?" My voice was a bit slurred after sticking my tongue out for too long.

I got up and took a full glass of water from the coffee table. "Ahh, much better," I felt refreshed.

"Try and take a deep breath, Andrew. In and out. It'll help you regain your strength."

I breathed in through my nose, then out through my mouth. Continued the cycle a few more times; it was truly helping.

"Thank you, Doctor. Should do this more often. Good thing the risperidone also worked though. Presumably it was the compound that killed the Worrier."

"The ultimate placebo," he said. "Positive thoughts to banish wicked beings. Two minds think alike."

My phone suddenly rang and I quickly answered. "Mum?" I couldn't quite catch everything she said, as it was hard to hear from the other end. "Oh God... Please don't tell me... I'll be there as soon as possible." I hung up. "My Dad's deteriorated, I have to get to Ealing Hospital." But suddenly, I began to feel faint for the second time. "Oh... Oh dear..."

"Andrew," the Doctor caught me in his arms. "Allow me to give you a lift..."

* * *

I slowly opened my eyelids, and heard the closing lyrics to the hymn Jerusalem, before noticing my hand being stroked. "Dad?" I was pleasantly surprised but felt comforted to be sitting right next to my father resting on his hospital bed; he was already looking very pale. "Oh, Andrew, my special son," he whispered. "I thought I would never see you again."

Then, nearly out of sight, I noticed my mother helping him drink some water through a straw. "Mum, how did I get here?"

"You fainted just a moment after I phoned you, Andrew," she said. "This kind gentlemen, he found you at the clinic whilst discovering that Stupin was an imposter who murdered Dr Gibbs. No need to fear now, he's already explained everything."

"Contacted some old friends of mine. They'll investigate and deal with the fallout." The Doctor was leaning against the TARDIS. "We're very lucky, Andrew. You're the last in the chain. Without the Worrier to activate the psychospore, your brain chemistry would simply dissolve it. Like a tablet of risperidone."

My Mum gestured to the blue box. "He carried you out of this magic closet."

"More than a 'magic closet', Mrs Hall."

"I'm Glenda."

"Good to finally meet you, Glenda. I'm the Doctor." He shook hands with her. "And this is Alastair, my hus–"

My father slowly turned his head. "Doctor? Doctor John Smith?" He stuttered. "I haven't seen you since... Sarajevo."

The Doctor appeared to be puzzled; I figured he was hesitant to admit or deny ever meeting my father.

"Alastair." He gave a very sad smile, knowing that Dad was close to dying.

"You're him!" I was speechless. "You're actually him! The guy who saved my Dad, and met again twice! And also that social worker – Mr Maverick! Oh my God! It's already coming back! I – I remember! But... how's that possible? How'd you… Were you wearing some sort of disguise?"

"I'm a Time Lord. I originate from another world. A planet called Gallifrey. That's the thing about my people, we can physically change."

"How does that work?"

"I..." he stuck out his lower lip equivocally. "Change. New cells, new body, new face. Good for the immune system."

"Blimey."

My father reached out for my mother's hand and took hold. "Glenda, you will always be my beloved wife, even when I'm gone, and I will always be your beloved husband." I then took hold of his other hand. "Andrew, I am proud to have a special son who has grown into a fine young man, and I know you will keep on going because you have the potential to find what's right for you. Remain hopeful, Andrew... Hopeful..."

"Dad?" He closed his eyes. He was ready to sleep for one last time. "Dad, don't go!" I checked his pulse, his fingers were no longer moving. "No, no, no, please, Dad," I could not hear him breathing. " _DAD!_ "

He was gone. I collapsed on the bed and broke down in tears. "Dad... My Dad." My mother also began sobbing.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor wrapped his arm around my shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

I was too upset to accept his deepest sympathies. He got up and made his way for the TARDIS, as my mother sat down and comforted me for the rest of the afternoon.


	4. Chapter 4

"That was the end of the worst day of my life. And the Doctor was gone; never saw him again." I took my last sip of dandelion and burdock, choking on my tears, before throwing the can away in the bin right next to the bench. "No idea where he is now. Really want to thank him for everything. But I can't. I can't even try to contact him."

"Oh, Andrew, come here," said Tom, about to give me a hug. "What am I gonna do without him, Tom?" I sobbed, desperately hugging him as tight as possible. "What am I gonna do?"

Suddenly, we both heard a faint sound from close by; a mixture of wheezing and groaning.

"Do you hear that, Andrew?"

"Yeah," I got up from the bench and tried to listen. "Sounds very familiar." The noise was growing louder, and louder, and louder.

"The TARDIS!" I exclaimed in excitement. "Come on, let's go."

I lead the way to the top of the spiral hill, with Tom following right behind. "Doctor!" I called out. "Doctor, it's us! We had no idea you were coming! Doctor!"

We approached the top and saw the very police box literally fading in at the centre of the hill. "What on Earth is _that_?!" Tom called out. " _That_ , my brother, is the TARDIS!" I could not believe that the man who saved my life was returning.

The TARDIS doors opened and there he was, wearing his same suit.

"Doctor," I was overjoyed. "You came back!"

"Yeah, course I did," he replied. "How've you been, since I last saw you?"

"Better. Ten times better. And please allow me to introduce my best friend: Tom Hillary."

"It's an absolute honour to finally meet you, Doctor." Tom offered him a handshake.

"An absolute honour to meet you, indeed, Tom. He has frequently mentioned you."

"Yeah, I know." They shook hands, as Tom gave him that very cute grin.

"You have saved my life, Doctor," I said. "I can't thank you enough for everything, I _honestly_ can't."

"That's what I do, as _the_ Doctor, save and help those in need. I've also saved countless innocent lives and they saved me too." He pushed one of the doors in a bit further. "Care for a ride?"

I didn't have to think of how to respond because I already knew what to say: "Sure, why not. Last time I was in there, I was unfortunately unconscious."

The Doctor went back inside, as a way of ushering us both. We walked through the doors and stepped into a very different kind of world to ours.

"Oh my Lord, it's..." Tom stammered.

"I know, right."

"...Smaller on the outside?"

Then together: "Bigger on the inside!"

The Doctor smiled, taking our reaction as a compliment. "Welcome aboard the TARDIS, gentlemen. Please, make yourselves at home."

The room was extraordinarily wide and circular. Its walls were covered with golden hexagonal roundels, bit like giant metal screws tightly fastened. All surrounded by coral pillars that each pointed directly at the main console, emitting a bright bluey–green light (probably cyan).

I observed all the console panels, but I knew that it wouldn't be a good idea to touch any single control. "Fascinating work you've done here," I commented. "Very spacious and futuristic, if you'll pardon the pun."

"Interesting decor," said Tom, looking around. "Majestic and illuminating." He did a little twirl and hummed a country dance tune, while I observed a coral pillar.

The Doctor brought something over from what appeared to be his treasure chest. "Here, made this for you." He unveiled some kind of handheld device that looked like a portable hard drive with a small touchscreen. "Allow me to demonstrate."

I gently grabbed Tom's arm and moved out of the way. The Doctor pointed the device at some open space, tapped on its screen, and released a bright blue light of energy. Several outlines of round containers appeared on the surface. They looked a lot like film cans.

I picked one up and spotted Dad's full name handwritten on its label. "Hang on," I gasped. "How is that possible? You saved them all!"

"Right before the fire incident, I developed this memory projector from some old weaponised junk. Yeah, that's what I call it. Memory projector. With the help of some Gallifreyan technology."

"Galli–what?" asked Tom.

"Gallifrey," I clarified. "The Doctor's home planet."

"Really long story about my people. All this..." the Doctor gestured, "Because we Time Lords are so clever, you can store as many possessions and belongings as you like. Although, if I were you, I wouldn't try storing anything the size of a sofa for the time being. Twitchy technology. High chance of complexities overall."

"Hey, what's this?" I found a USB stick among the lot and picked it up.

"That, Andrew, contains the digital copies of all the footages. I had an expert do all the transferring. Well, he actually offered to do it... for you."

"What was his name?" I asked.

"Spoilers." the Doctor replied, handing me the device.

I flicked through the touchscreen and tapped one of the buttons. The same blue energy of light flashed up and surrounded the cans before vanishing back inside, like a vacuum cleaner. I put the device in my pocket.

"All yours to keep," the Doctor resumed.

"Thank you, Doctor. I know what I plan to do with them all."

"Oh, do you?"

"Use some of the footage to produce a documentary film on my father's reporting in Sarajevo. Dedicated to his memory."

"Oh, that is just brilliant, Andrew. Just—"

The Doctor suddenly winced and placed his hand on his stomach.

"You alright, Doctor?"

"Haven't been myself lately." He tried to take a deep breath.

I felt puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"People have died trying to save me, people have died trying to save my friends, and now _I'm_ dying because I saved a friend. And to quote Oskar Schindler: 'I could have done more.' I felt that way then, and I continue to feel that way right now. Told David Lloyd George the same thing, when I last saw him; good ol' Winston Churchill was there too."

"Doctor," I began to respond. "We are grateful for everything you have done, no matter the lives you saved."

"Thank you, fellas. Now, let's get you two home. Short hop, just once around the park." The Doctor leaned forwards on the console and pressed a few buttons. "Hold on tight now..." He grinned and flicked a lever. "Allons–y!"

The whole area began to rumble. I fell backwards and landed on the seat, before Tom joined me and started clinging onto my arm.

"This is like being on a rollercoaster, Andrew!" yelled Tom.

"I know, Tom, I know!" I yelled back and cheered.

We both got up and grabbed onto the console. The Doctor pressed and flicked a few other controls, then the same lever – we suddenly came to a halt. "Here we are," he announced. "Not far from the borders of Hanwell and Greenford, or perhaps Perivale."

The Doctor walked towards the front doors and opened them. We both followed him towards the open air of the quiet street. "I don't believe it," said Tom, astonished by the complete change of scenery. "We've moved!"

"Well then, comrades, I better be off."

"It's been a pleasure knowing you, Doctor, a _real_ pleasure indeed." I gave him the warmest hug I could; Tom joined as well. "This wouldn't be the last, would it?"

"Afraid it will be, after this," said the Doctor. "But tell you what, look out for me."

"In another body?" I asked.

"Allons–y, you two." He winked and waved for the final time, then closed the TARDIS doors.

The police box made those wheezing and groaning noises, as it faded away.

"So, what now, Andrew?"

"Wanna grab some fish and chips? Could also do a Captain Scarlet marathon. And begin our work on the documentary tomorrow."

"Yeah, why not. Hold my hand."

"What?"

Tom held out his hand, waiting for me to take hold. So I did. "Whoa!" I yelped. He dragged me along, hand–in–hand, and started running briskly. "Onward together! Literally!" he cheered and laughed. "Slow down, Tom, just slow down, please!" I tried to keep my pace without tripping over. "Well, in that case…"

Then together, for the Doctor: " _ALLONS–Y!_ "

And that was the account of my soft reboot.


End file.
